


Evening Lessons

by Marquise



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F, F/M, OT3, Old West, Threesome - F/F/M, crackships, so this happened
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-19
Updated: 2013-07-19
Packaged: 2017-12-20 18:12:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/890299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marquise/pseuds/Marquise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Petyr and Barbrey are con artists in the Old West, and Alayne is their bait/pupil. Smut ensues. Yeah.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Evening Lessons

**Author's Note:**

> I was prompted to write this on tumblr (since I ship both Petyr/Barbrey and Petyr/Sansa) and kind of grew to love this AU.

“Too obvious,” Petyr says with a cluck of his tongue. He’s standing in front of Alayne—they’re nearly eye level these days—cupping her chin gently in one hand, examining every inch of her features with a close, practiced eye.

Alayne falters just a bit, her eyes betraying her still living eagerness to please. Barbrey thinks she’ll always have an element of that. After all, Petyr is her teacher in this, and not just his good qualities have transferred over.

“You need to appear as though you care, at all times. Smile like you did when you were a girl.”

“I’m trying.” Even in the dim lamplight it’s easy to make out the way the girl’s features flicker, uncertainty rising to the surface. Barbrey watches her try and compose herself again, try and regain her innocence. It’s not working, it only makes her look as false as she is. 

“You’ve done well so far, sweetling.” Petyr says, his voice kind. He’s taken one of her hands in his, rubbing the back with his thumb. He always has had a weak hand with her, softer than needed. Alayne’s doing well enough all right, charming men out of enough gold to keep the three of them in their current lifestyle, but Barbrey knows she could do so much more. 

It’s not so much that she wants the jewels, the fine silks that Petyr promises them—she lacks his need to impress. It’s more visceral than that—she simply likes watching this girl destroy. She’s good at it. 

It an innate skill, she knows, despite all her faltering. Petyr’s a good teacher, but he doesn’t seem to trust her enough, despite the fact that it was he who first noticed her skill, first arrived at the idea that they could use it to their advantage.

“You need to charm him, never let him see the knife in your precious hand.” He’s continuing on, straightening her back, molding her frame.

“It shouldn’t be hard for you,” Barbrey says, speaking for the first time since this lesson began. Alayne’s eyes met hers, the cold blue lacking any of the warmth that should be there 

“They never seem to mind.” It’s the girl’s defense, delivered in a slight, unsure tone. She’s a beautiful creature—pale skin enhanced by the dark blue gown bought with their spoils, auburn hair in thick curls liable to make any woman jealous—just on the cusp of womanhood, teetering on that dangerous line that draws men like flies to honey. But Barbrey can see what Petyr does, the _potential underneath_. Where she is now all uncertainty and awkwardness, there’s the possibility of real danger when she grows into those fine silks. Barbrey can’t wait to see than unleashed on the world.

She downs the rest of her wine and moves to join the two of them in the lamplight. Petyr steps to the side to allow her some room to appraise, and she can’t help but notice the way he seems to be watching both of them, the way he hovers about. 

“They’re fools. It’s easy to trick them.” Alayne seems to crumple a bit at her words, and it’s here that the act comes through. A false name, a false daughter (a thought that gives the three of them no shortage of wicked delight), a false persona. But something is still quite clearly there. A diamond in the rough, as they like to say.

“What do you suggest?” Alayne asks. Her eyes are clear now, seeking. There’s that lingering thread of innocence again; Barbrey could see the attraction men have for it, though her interest (and Petyr’s, when he’s honest) lies in chipping that away 

Barbrey takes her chin in hand, a tighter grip than Petyr’s. She leans in till there’s hardly any space between them, till their lips are brushing, and then more than brushing.

Alayne seems to unclench under the kiss, her body relaxing, the uncertainty draining from her. Her hands grip at the silk of Barbrey’s own dress (black, respectable, deadly) and when she hears Petyr’s low groan, his hand gripping her waist, she leans against Barbrey’s body with all of a woman’s grace.

Barbrey can feel Petyr’s other hand on the small of her back. He’s remarkably easy to get a rise out of, not that she minds. It suits her purposes. She draws away. Alayne’s lips are red, slightly parted, her skin flushed, her eyes half-lidded. She’s a seductive creature, none of the awkward flirtations she was practicing before apparent in her manner.

“Remember that,” Barbrey says. Petyr’s fingers are in her laces now, pulling; she can already feel the sink of his teeth in her neck, can already see the lust and awe in Alayne’s eyes. “Don’t give them that of course. Never give them more than an implied promise. But think of that feeling when you do.” Alayne nods, intent. 

“Only be so reserved with them, of course.” Petyr adds. He draws her close, claims her mouth. Barbrey crosses the room with sure steps and a thin smile, killing the lamplight, plunging them into the dark.


End file.
